Monday, March 16, 2015

SHADES OF HANGTOWN

DEDICATIONTo my
beloved ancestors, and the faith and fortitude that drove them to pursue their
dreams, this innocuous little parable is affectionately dedicated.

SOMETIMES IN THE EVENING

Sometimes in the evening

When the sun is sinking low,

And the pines are silhouetted

And I’ve nowhere else to go,

I remember good ol’ Placerville

In the distant days of yore,

And I’d very nearly sell my soul

To walk its streets once more.

When its avenues were dusty

And its storefronts weathered wood,

When the girls were thin and lusty

And the Ivy House still stood;

When Main Street ran a rutted course

And blooms were yet a bud,

The only ride to town, a horse,

And gold was in our blood;

When the Hangman’s Tree served nickel beer,

The Cary House was new;

Lamp-lit saloons exuded cheer

And frosty mugs of brew,

The three mile house was always full,

Lake Tahoe days away,

And folks who stopped at Hangtown

Almost always came to stay.

Father in Heaven, hear my prayer.

Dear God, please grant my plea.

If I could just awaken there.

If time could set me free.

If once more I could stroll its streets

And once more breathe it’s air,

I know there’s souls aplenty Lord

Who could benefit from prayer.

Old Dry Diggings aka Hangtown aka Placerville 1849

The sun was high, the humidity low, and the air hung heavy with
the scent of Manzanita, the drone of insects, and the obnoxious screech of
valley jays. We trudged on with determination all day long and right at dusk we
reached the crest of a pine-covered ridge. “Over the mountains of the moon,
down the valley of the shadow, ride, boldly ride, the shade replied, if you
seek for El Dorado.” So says ol’ Edgar Allan, and Lord knows Poe is well
acquainted with shadows. There below, basking in the last red rays of the
rapidly setting sun lay the storied metropolis of Hangtown. A small tormented
creek meandered through a series of deep, pine-lined ravines, and clinging
tenaciously to each bank, at close intervals and in no apparent order, squatted
several dozen shake roofed structures reminiscent of the clapboard shanties
that graced the Irish community back home. In addition to the rustic, wooden
framed structures were numerous log cabins, and on the periphery of the
settlement and lining Main Street on either side, an endless sea of tents
glowed hospitably from the lamplight within. The oak scented smoke of
countless campfires hung thick in the motionless evening air, and the entire
hollow twinkled in the light of countless lamps and flickering candles.
Laughter and jocularity rose spasmodically from a number of well lit gatherings
down below, and a melancholy rendition of “Little Annie Laurie”, scratched out
hesitantly on a pair of slightly flat fiddles, rose plaintively from a massive
canvas covered structure in the center of the scene. We eventually found access
to the main street and proceeded slowly and deliberately in the waning light
until we reached a large open area in front of the crowded tent. This was
evidently the heart of downtown. Main Street, lined on each side with false
storefronts, dropped in a gentle grade from the east; widening and splitting as
it approached a long row of canvas covered shops. At the east end of this
row of shops stood a bell tower as high as any building in town. Main
Street proceeded west, past a number of dimly lit but well patronized saloons,
and Center Street led quickly toward a row of barns and stables which faced the
rear of the shops to their south and hung precariously over the banks of scenic
Hangtown Creek to the north.

Placerville California 1890

Twilight arrived early that evening. The storm abated, and despite
occasional flurries the moon shone down at intervals through a partly cloudy
sky, lending an eerie translucence to the scene and casting curious shadows on
the glimmering snow. The breathtaking beauty of the mountains once more
overcame me. The magnificent ponderosa pines leaned and swayed
precariously, each bow hanging heavy, laden with a mantel of white. The
air was still and silent, with only the occasional pop of an overburdened limb
disturbing the quiet as it echoed from the canyon beyond. Smoke boiled
and billowed from a forest of stovepipes, and the sound of kindling being
chopped rang at intervals from a series of locations and echoed from the ravine.
I stood for a long time, shivering and staring
awestruck across the snow-covered Sierras. I’ve never experienced air
fresher, shadows deeper, or a scene so extraordinarily quiet and
pristine. You’ll laugh and think I’m crazy, but it seemed as though I
could almost hear the stars. On the afternoon of the fifth day, a bitter
north wind whipped down from the high country. The storm returned with a
vengeance and the temperature dropped to around thirty degrees. I pulled
my chair closer to the potbellied stove and poured myself some coffee from the
gray graniteware pot. As twilight approached I sat staring out the window and
listening to the moan of the howling wind as it tore at the shingles and
rattled the chimney cap. I could hear the hiss of sleet as it began
filling the ruts and hoof prints in the muddy street, and icicles began to form
and hung in profusion from the eaves. The sleet came down fitfully against the
window and periodically a gust of wind would find its way down the stovepipe
and the old cast iron heater would belch smoke from around its dampers and red
hot lid. After a while the rough plank roof began dripping and leaking
like a sieve, and one by one a strategically placed company of pots and kettles
joined in a chorus of plinks, plops and piddles as they filled quickly with
their captured leakage and began splashing rhythmically on the floor.
Clearing a spot on the frosted windowpane, I squinted and peered outside. The
snow was coming down in earnest now, and the street was entirely abandoned,
with the exception of a few hardy souls on the boardwalk by the bell tower. I
warmed a blanket for myself, kicked back in my chair and leaned against the
wall. The stove dampers were wide open, and I remember watching the
firelight dancing on the wall. Then the cobwebs came and darkness took me in.

Placerville, California 1860

The early
1850s found old Hangtown up one minute and down the next but always hanging
tough. The irrepressible ravine city was forever booming or
busting. In 1852 the little metropolis was thriving and rapidly gaining
renown as the bustling hub of activity in the heart of the Mother Lode. The
spring rains in Hangtown are long and leisurely, but once they quit they’re
done! By June of 1852 Hangtown was bone-dry and cactus thirsty. The higher elevations held a deep luxurious
snow pack and the creeks were running high, but below three thousand feet the
purple vetch was drying up, the roads were dusty, and the creeks were choked
with mud. Even the poppies were peaked. The mountains became open range. Pigs
rooted for acorns, chap-clad cowboys searched the ridges for strays, the lush
mountain meadows became home to dairies, and a melancholy chorus of cowbells
filled the air. The picturesque structures
along Main Street were in a constant state of metamorphosis. The tinder
dry buildings were forever burning down, abandoned, or completely renovated.
Main Street itself, for whatever reason, never seemed to change. The real
estate changed hands and the ramshackle, rough-sawn facades were gradually
replaced by brick and iron, but the dusty, rut-riddled boulevard held
tenaciously to its steady, time-honored course, past the courthouse, down the
grade, and widening for its familiar promenade at the belltower before
narrowing at the Round Tent and making a beeline passed the cozy inns and the
dimly lit saloons. The already infamous settlement gradually spread northward
into Bedford’s tent city and eastward up Hangtown Creek. Eventually referred to
as upper and lower town, the long narrow settlement was bisected by a crossing
near Blair’s Lumber Yard where upper town proceeded eastward along the creek
until gradually petering out just short of Smith Flat, home of Three Mile House
and the Blue Lead Mine.

SORROW SLIPS AWAY

Soft through the pines the summer breeze is blowing,

Sweet, solemn music to me.

Lightly through my mind old memories are flowing,

Tender thoughts of what life used to be.

Souls called away, golden days amid the tall grass;

Laughter lingers deep in my heart.

Pleasant moments shared, vibrant dreams of youth are ageless.

Hope unites though time may bid us part.

Shadows of time when the hours passed in moments,

Tender moments priceless to recall;

Futures to share, happy destinies awaiting,

Summer slipping gently into fall.

Seasons quickly pass. Our memories turn to treasure,

God’s gift to those who remain.

Sorrow slips away while our hearts preserve life’s pleasure.

Grief fades, but joy we retain.

HANGTOWN
TOUGH!

We
headed for Hangtown in ‘49,

But
never showed till ‘50.

Between
us we had nary a dime.

Suffice
it to say, we was thrifty!

The
Sierra Nevada’s are god-awful high!

And
the dang trail rugged at best.

Ma
took one look and groaned, “Oh my!

We
should have stayed home with the rest!”

The
creek ain’t iced up all the time.

August
heat is quick to thaw it.

It’s
just for wading. That's the crime.

If
there’s gold, I never saw it.

The
housing in Hangtown leaves much to desire.

That’s
the case ever’where we went.

But
Ma and me’s tough. There ain’t much we require,

And
we had a luxurious tent!

The
tent’s mighty cozy though lacking for room,

With
a dirt floor infested with mice;

Damp
as the dickens and cold as a tomb.

The
first year I froze to death twice!

The
wood stove was nice if ya sat on the lid.

A
bonfire would be better I’m thinkin’.

When
it dropped below thirty as often it did,

It
froze finials right off of the Franklin!

Flatlanders
are welcome despite what you hear.

You
won’t hang. I can’t even conceive it!

We’ve
oodles of room and we’re known for our beer.

Bring
plenty of cash and please leave it.

If
you’ve got a hankerin’ for livin’ on beans,

Out
west where it’s generally sunny,

Then
check out the gold camps and by all means,

Visit
Hangtown and bring lots of money!

SC

Mosquito Bridge, 1914

Mosquito Road winds along ridge top and ravine and eventually
crosses a lava strewn flat. Here in the midst of pine needle covered hillsides
of red clay and granite, some ancient, unrecorded volcanic action has created
an unlikely landscape of unearthly geological formations and conglomerated
lava. In the middle of this desolate and unlikely location, for some
reason known only to them, a handful of Chinese immigrants have established a
unique and isolated community. Here these peculiar, standoffish Argonauts
prepare their ceremonial teas and enjoy the euphoric contents of their noxious
clay pipes beyond the scrutiny of a disapproving society and with little fear
of interruption. Finding the occupants entirely sociable, we struck up a
conversation and visited for about an hour. And then, our lightly steeped
libations consumed and the need for cordiality satisfied, we climbed back in
the wagon and hames bells jingling continued on our way. Reaching the summit of
a pine covered ridge, we rested the mules briefly and then began our cautious
decent into the rugged canyon of the American River’s renowned south
fork. The already treacherous thoroughfare soon lost all semblance of a
road and gradually took on the unmistakable characteristics of a dry creek bed!
Arriving eventually at the foot of a thickly wooded hill, we rode
apprehensively to the edge of a deep precipice and stared in awe. At this point
the prehistoric gorge was spanned defiantly by a picturesque but unnerving
little suspension bridge. Constructed of gigantic, rough sawn timbers,
and suspended by equally impressive cables, the primitive little conduit
proceeded courageously out into thin air, and then extended precariously at a
dizzying height, over a tumultuous rush of rampaging fury. The river was
running high with the frigid runoff from the mountains generous and rapidly
melting snow pack, and the reverberations of its unbridled onslaught resulted
in a primal roar that literally shook the bridge. The midpoint of this
remarkable swinging bridge afforded a spectacular vista of the riverbed some
thirty feet below. Beneath us, the gut wrenching force of the rampaging
river boiled and bounded through a series of violently rolling rapids and
unique cylindrical formations which long eons of gradual erosion had carved
into the solid granite base. The road swung immediately to the left at
the opposite side of the gorge, supported by an outcropping of granite whose
overhang provided home to a community of tiny bats. Below us the
restless current intermittently exhibited a fleeting streak of silver as a
rainbow trout would erupt from the surface in a frenzied attempt to surmount
the foaming falls. Irrigated by the rising mists, lush growths of moss
clung tenaciously to the rugged bluffs, and here and there a maidenhair fern
found a hold and spread luxuriously in the canyons filtered light. Here in this
unexpected haven we parked the rig and spread a quilt for lunch. Steller’s
Jays piped from the canopy of Live oaks, and as the summer sun shone intermittently
from behind a wispy sea of cumulus clouds, the mist that rose from the
tumultuous rapids below periodically burst into a brilliant rainbow. The
temperature warmed into the low eighties, and we sprawled on our blanket
luxuriously full and absorbed the summer sun. Following a long, leisurely
lunch, we proceeded across the swinging bridge and began our laborious
ascent. The narrow trail ascended the cliff face in a series of narrow
switchbacks, which zigzagged back and forth in a gradual climb and periodically
afforded an unobstructed view, almost perpendicularly from the trails edge, one
hundred feet to the boulder-buffeted torrent below. Negotiating the barely
maneuverable switchbacks we eventually approached the top of a pine-covered
ridge. The distant roar of the river dissipated and grew silent, replaced
by the chattering of the gregarious nuthatches and chickadees which darted in
and out of the cone clad bows that hung in profusion from the pine and Douglas
fir. Gradually the incessant drone of insects and the familiar but
indescribable sound of the breeze in the towering evergreens lulled us into a
drowsiness which left us nodding and semiconscious in the gently rocking
wagon. The mules set their own casual pace, occasionally addressing a
persistent fly with a leisurely swish of their tails, and pausing briefly from
time to time to brose on a tempting morsel along the way.

NEATH
CALIFORNIA SKIES

Asa
Camp was a pioneer,

And
a relative of mine.

My
great great grandpa headed west,

Back
in ’49.

The
trail west was rugged,

And
the wild Sierras high.

The
golden prey illusive,

But
Asa was determined he would try.

The
plains were fraught with peril,

And
the road west took a toll.

But
at last they reached the summit

Of
a steep and piney knoll.

Down
below was Hangtown,

The
end of a weary road;

The
mythical El Dorado,

Heart
of the Mother Lode.

There
Asa Camp would spend his youth.

There
he’d wed a wife.

There
he’d father children

Through
a long, industrious life.

But
first he made a second trip,

In
1854.

He
knew the long, rut riddled route.

He’d
made the trek before.

This
time he brought the Oldfield’s west,

In
this saga that I’m tellin’.

And
when their daughter came of age,

He
married Laura Ellen.

They
raised three daughters and a son,

In
Hangtown through the years.

They
buried Ella on the hill,

And
persevered through tears.

His
hands were hard and callused.

His
smile warm as toast.

He
didn’t treasure company,

But
he was a gracious host.

He
mined the rugged south fork,

And
lived on Reservoir Hill,

Panning
gold, hauling freight,

And
ruling home and hearth with an iron will.

There
his children married.

Each
lived their life with zest.

And
great great grandpa loved them all,

But
Asa loved the wild Sierras best.

He
cherished every blessing,

Neath
the California skies.

His
life was spent in gratitude,

And
he died with the wild Sierra’s in his eyes.

Laura Ellen Oldfield Camp, Baby Albert,

Asa Steven & Meda Eliza Camp

Reservoir Hill

1859 sounded a sweet note in old Hangtown’s colorful
history. As California’s neighbor to the east, Nevada had benefited as
easterners poured through the arid, inhospitable country in route to California
and its gold. Now the tables turned. Some 100 miles from the
Sacramento Valley the remote and previously benign outpost of Virginia City,
Nevada all at once exploded on the scene. With the discovery of silver,
Nevada’s Comstock Lode began drawing a new generation of Argonauts. They came
from far and wide enticed once again by fame, fortune, and unprecedented
wealth. Placerville would once again benefit by its fortuitous
location. As Hangtown prospered as people poured into El Dorado
County for its gold, they would now find themselves strategically located along
California’s route to Virginia City’s booming Comstock Lode. The
tenacious little city in the ravine would now find the traffic flow reversed,
but a rush is a rush. Hangtown’s boom was back. The lure of the Comstock
represented an irresistible draw to spectators, prospectors, and speculators of
every conceivable kind. Starry-eyed optimists were drawn out of southern
California in droves, and the route of choice was the Placerville stage
road. Old
Hangtown was fast becoming civilized. The city fathers were passing a new ordinance
every week. We knew we’d reached a new
level of sophistication when they posted an ordinance which prohibited a feller
from relieving hisself in the street.
The idea, though well received, soon proved impractical and was later
amended to apply to Main Street only.
That was a relief! Finally they
whittled her down just right by adding the clause, during business hours. By 1860
traffic through old Hangtown was thicker than flatlanders at a water rights
revolt. You literally risked your life to cross the street. From Hangtown
to Tahoe the stations and stage stops were open twenty-four/seven, but if you
dared pull off you lost your place in line, and it often took hours for another
chance to merge. During the summer the dust was so deep it was like
walking through sifted flour, and when it rained the mud holes could claim a
horse. It took a good forty-five minutes to drive the length of our
booming metropolis, and very few managed the dust-choked travail without
stopping in town for a frosty mug of beer. Many colorful saloons graced the now
booming metropolis, with each establishment much like the next. The floors were
strewn with numerous and sundry containers, strategically placed for the
purpose of capturing leakage, and a company of tarnished brass cuspidors stood
at the ready along the base of a well polished and ornate bar. Coal oil
lamps flickered determinedly from within their soot-choked chimneys, and the
atmosphere was permeated with a thick cloud of noxious smoke which belched from
the dampers of well-stoked wood heaters and countless cheap cigars. Against the
rear wall of the establishment a humidity-ravaged piano bravely plinked out a
barely recognizable medley of Irish tavern tunes, in competition with an
unsympathetic chorus of clanking utensils and beverage induced jocularity.

The sigh of old-growth evergreensAs evening breezes shift,Trout feeding at the sparkling edgeOf an ice-flows lazy drift; The roaring of a waterfallAs rainbow mists drift by,The primordial cry of eaglesAnd their circles in the sky;All God's creatures great and smallShaking winter's chills,While meadows lifeless days agoErupt in daffodils;Each one emblematicOf a fresh, inviting spring,Alive with opportunitiesAnd all the hope they bring;And at last the call of northbound geese,Impervious and free,Arousing primal passions,Stirring souls and calling me.

Some question faith and deity,Denying God above,Disdaining forces they can't see,But no one questions love.

LONG SPENT
FIRES

Sometimes
when the moon is full

And
the campfire flickers low,

A
sudden spark lights up the dark

Rekindling
thoughts of long long ago.

And
my mind recalls a distant day

As
bright embers stir the fire,

Days
of youthful romance,

Wistful
dreams and old desire.

Days
when mountain meadows

Were
lush and green and fair,

When
cowboys combed the hills for strays

And
the sound of clanking cowbells filled the air;

When
men donned slickers and hit the trail,

Despite
inclement weather,

When
canvas tents were lamp lit,

And
smelled of kerosene and well oiled leather.

I
can almost see old Hangtown,

When
her streets were dust or mud,

When
her storefronts smelled of weathered wood

And
gold was in our blood.

In
my mind, I walk her boardwalks

Passed
the Hangman’s Tree saloon,

And
I cross the street at Cary House

And
dine there on the balcony by the moon.

From
my perch I see the Round Tent

As
it juts into the street,

With
horses nosing wooden troughs.

I
can almost smell molasses as they eat.

And
across from that, the Bell Tower,

With
It's well-known promenade,

And
Main Street’s old rut riddled course,

Past
the Court House, widening for the grade.

How
the old days call me back

Rekindling
old desires,

Revisiting
youthful romance

And
stirring coals of long spent fires.

Dear
God, preserve our memories

Of
dear folks on Reservoir Hill,

And
grant me many fireside dreams

Of
moonlit nights in good old Placerville.

﻿

﻿

Placerville California, 1900

CRIMSON SHADES

Seasons are a
wondrous thing, but time is resolute, and with time, each season will pass.
Spring and summer are favorite seasons in Placerville. The foothills are alive
with budding orchards and absolutely inundated with blooms. Purple vetch climbs the fencerows, lush vines
of sweet peas transform the roadsides into luxurious displays of pastel pink,
opulent spires of china blue lupine and magnificent golden poppies carpet the
hillsides, and the lazy drone of honeybees fills the air. Oh to be barefoot,
youthful and free, and intoxicated with summer.
Dear God, thank you for life’s seasons. Through the seasons much of old
Hangtown has been lost to the passage of time, but thanks to the tireless
efforts of many dedicated people, shades of Hangtown survive today in
Placerville. In my mind’s eye she still
exudes the uncivil scent of sawdust floors and canvas. The rustic, rough-sawn facades
glow hospitably in crimson shades of long spent sunsets, and rows of tents glow
pleasantly, flickering with myriad lamps.

Camp/Daniels home, Reservoir Hill

I
remember sitting by a crackling fire high in the Sierra Nevadas and listening
to the ill-tempered Jerseys filing past with their cowbells clanking, their
babies bawling, and the old bull curling his lip and looking for work. I
remember standing on the rough plank sidewalk outside the Ivy House, inhaling
the aroma of grilled ribs sizzling over Manzanita coals, and watching the massive
freight wagons lumber by with harness squeaking, hames bells jingling, and the
iron-clad rims of hickory-spoked wheels smashing the gravel to dust beneath
their cumbersome tonnage of crocks of butter and barrels of fragrant cheese. I
remember believing that my whole life would be a long and wondrous
adventure. And it was.

UP ON THE HILL

Up on the hill where the pines grow dense;

Where the fields are green and the sky immense,

Scatter one day my last remains,

To be drawn in the earth by the gentle rains.

Gladly did I tread this place

With the gentle breeze upon my face,

A faithful dog for company,

And benevolent sun beaming down on me.

Thank the Lord for the time we had,

When rest was blessed and toil was glad,

When joyous hearts rejoiced in truth,

And we shared our hopes and dreams and youth.

Look to the heavens bright and blessed.

See me satisfied, caressed.

Know at last I’m free from care.

My dust is here, but my spirit there.

High Sierras, Lover's Leap

SMILE AND SING AND SOAR

High in the Sierras where the winds blow free,When this flesh drops away that's where I'll be.Keep your harp and keep your cloud.Keep your glum, self-righteous crowd. I'll have no use for either there,When my spirit's free to take the air.I say this not to cause you grief.Don't worry yourself with my belief.Don't shake your fist or wring your hands.It's sufficient that God understands.Don't stew and fret for the path I've trod.What I believe is between me and God.

High above bright granite peaks,That's the heaven my spirit seeks.Lazy sweeps on the gentle breeze,At one with stars and streams and trees,At one with the Lord who created it all.Keep your heaven it's way too small.

I'll have no use for flesh up there.I'll have no grief, no pain, no care,No robe of flesh to snag like before.I'll only smile and sing and soar,High in the Sierras where the winds blow free,With only the Lord for company.

Autobiography

By
way of introduction, my name is Shannon Thomas Casebeer. I was born in the
Sierra Nevada Mountains of Northern California and raised on a little piece of
paradise called Reservoir Hill. Idyllic childhoods are mighty few and
mighty far between, and I didn’t deserve one, but some of us just get lucky.
Near the top of Reservoir Hill, on the banks of historic South Fork ditch and
overlooking the snow-capped Sierras to the north, the coastal range to the west,
the Sacramento valley to the south, and Miller’s pear orchard to the east, were
the homes of my mom’s parents and her dad’s mother, Meda Eliza Camp Daniels. Meda’s
Husband, my great grandpa, Asa Wilder Daniels, arrived in Placerville in 1888,
purchased 40 acres on Reservoir Hill, operated a freight service, and served for some time as Justice of
The Peace. Her father, Asa Steven Camp, arrived in Hangtown with his father,
Clark, in 1849. Together they filed several claims in order to try their hand at prospecting,
and then after accompanying his father safely home, Asa returned to Placerville in
1854.

Meda Eliza Camp Daniels & Asa Wilder Daniels,

Reservoir Hill

I have
many vivid memories of walking the tree lined lane from my home on Mosquito
Road, up the hill past my great grandma’s home and on to the home of my grandma
and granddad Daniels. Passing Great Grandma’s window I was occasionally waved
down and invited inside to warm myself by her wood range and snack on the
candied figs which she’d dried in the sun before steaming and coating with
sugar. My favorite room was the kitchen. Even now I can close my
eyes and picture it in every detail just as it looked those long years ago. I
can see the old wood range and hear the
clanking of its lids as great Grandma painstakingly brought the range to life.
I remember how the nickel handles and black cast iron stove-top shone in the
flickering light of the coal oil lamp as she polished them with a wax covered
bread wrapper. I smell the sulfur and see the flash and flutter of the wooden
match as she lit the crumpled newspaper. I hear the cast-iron clanking of the
dampers being open and the crackling of the fire as Grandma carefully fed
kindling to the growing flame. I remember peeking in through the open dampers
at the glowing embers on the grate, watching their light dancing on the wall,
and gazing up at the warming oven in expectation of the golden brown treasures
that would soon be steaming inside. On a few occasions I recall sitting in her
lap in the old rocking chair. The wood range would crackle and pop
pleasantly and great Grandma would carefully
unfold and read aloud from the same little muslin book that had mesmerized my
granddad as a child. Time with Granddad was always a special treat and rarely
did a summer pass without Granddad seeing to it that the entire family enjoyed
a series of camping trips high in the Sierras, where Granddad had camped with
his family all his life. All variety of kith and kin accompanied us on
these woodland adventures, including Granddad’s brother and sister and of
course his mom, who camped with us until age 93. As a little girl, Great
Grandma’s mom, Laura Ellen Oldfield Camp, had crossed the plains by covered
wagon, making the trek from Wisconsin to old Hangtown back in 1854 when the rut
riddled boulevard west was often impassable, and Native Americans still thrived
on vast herds of migrating buffalo. Camping was in our blood. We camped much as
the family had for generations. Granddad had built red wooden sideboards for
his 1941 Chevy, so the little pickup was well prepared to house all the
essentials of camping, and with the addition of a canvas cover provided snug sleeping
quarters at night. I remember well crawling from my own sleeping bag at
first light, in order to join my grandparents in the cozy bed of the old Chevy.
I remember Granddad’s beaming smile and mass of disheveled gray hair as he
peeked from under the covers. I recall how snug and warm it felt crawling under
that down comforter after kicking off my moccasins on the tailgate, the feel
and smell of the canvas cover rustling in the mountain air, and gazing at stars
through silhouetted pines. Once the fire was lit, Sis and I would dress quickly
and join the rest of the family, warming our backsides at a stone lined
campfire and anticipating the smell of coffee brewing in the graniteware coffee
pot, and the debilitating aroma of pancakes and bacon sizzling on Great
Grandma’s griddle. Stellar Blue Jays called from the canopy of old growth
pines. The welcome sun cascaded down through the lush boughs of evergreen. Off
in the distance rainbow trout snatched Mayflies from the cobalt blue surface of
pristine mountain lake. And my mind’s eye envisioned my granddad’s granddad
crossing the country by covered wagon long ago when Indians roamed these
hills. Such were the days of my childhood, when life seemed simple, summer
was perennial, and childlike faith assured tomorrows joys. Treasure your
memories, keep them fresh and never take them for granted. Even our
memories can fade with the harsh glare of time.